


Valentine's Card

by Aithilin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Choosing a card, F/M, Fluff, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 05:25:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is very certain of the sort of card he needs for Valentine's Day. It's just a matter of finding it, and coming to terms with the idea that all of these cards demand that he label something he's not sure he wants to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Valentine's Card

**Author's Note:**

> Just some fluff for Valentine's Day.

In the end, he settled on something that appeared, at its very base level, to be dull and conventional. It was decorated with the prerequisite hearts and frills, coloured red and pink, with the same little tabby kitten that was on all the others. It had been easy to dismiss, hidden between the bolder shows of commercial affection and the strange, barely veiled requests for sex disguised as some sort of timeless romance. Most of the cards around it had been misplaced— hastily snatched up and replaced as indecisive boyfriends and husbands and girlfriends tried to select something that would make their partner “smile”— as if a patient quirk of the lips at a generic sentiment was something to be rewarded. 

He had watched the others make their selections in nearly a fraction of the time it took him to decide. They were idiots. 

One man grabbed two— a _wife_ and _boyfriend_ — neither would be with him for much longer, as he clearly had a date with them both only a few hours apart. Hidden from each other, rather than an open, consenting relationship (not his best clothes, and easy to maintain or redress; a nervous twitch towards his phone to check for messages— already cracking under the stress of maintaining the lies he needed to keep the secrets; hastily crumpled receipts fallen from his pocket, detailing a reserved table he went to in person rather than called). Clearly the generic declarations of love and devotion would be lost on him. 

Sherlock had narrowed it down to a specific section— the titles were easy to dismiss at a first glance, so he had ignored them. In the vast display, none of the labels others tried to live by actually fit what he needed; he wasn’t even sure there was a word for what he wanted. 

A group of nervous teen girls giggled over the cards labelled for _boyfriends_ , only to blush and chatter through the raunchy messages with the same false bravado more commonly seen in young men. All from the same school, two of the promissory cards would be delivered to the same boy, and one— the sweeter one, about candy and romance, and avoiding gendered pronouns— was to be tucked into a bag or through a desk (nervous plucking at the decoration, quick glances and blushes not sparked by the topics of what boy puts what parts where). There would be a suicide by the end of the month sparked by the rejection and subsequent bullying. 

He narrowed it down to a thin, untouched selection pressed between _friends_ and _other_. Each labelled and tucked neatly together in pairs, and untouched. They were blank inside, or kept to a general well wish of “Happy Valentine’s Day” in a base, unburdened font. Enough blank space to suit his purposes. 

A young man stopped at the cards for _girlfriend_. He was just out of basic training, given a reprieve for a week or two before the last of his health checks and paperwork went through, before he was declared fit for duty and sent off to the wider world. His hand faltered over most of the cards— indecisive, wary of what they were saying and what they promised. Left school early, no family to speak of, no other ties to London other than the young woman (older than him, but not motherly— they had a cat together and a shared space, had been apart while he went through the recruitment and training, unable to afford visits and trips away to meet on common ground. The lipstick still clinging to his neck and edge of his shirt— the telltale bruises peeking out from the collar, and the desperation with which his clothes were rumpled— told Sherlock that she had been faithful in waiting for the young man, just as he had been faithful despite a few hours a week of leave into the nearest town off the training base) who was to receive the card he was trying to decide on. 

It was only a moment’s hesitation before Sherlock let himself step in. He reached above the boy’s head and plucked a card he had dismissed earlier from the _wife_ selection; “Try this.”

Confused, the boy accepted the card, taking a moment to consider it. The grin in response was enough, but as he grabbed the envelop that matched it, he nodded his thanks to Sherlock. “Thanks, mate. Wish me luck.”

It was a base sentiment— the boy was nervous, young, and unsure of himself. His marks in training were average at best, hindered by the horror stories that filtered through the news of roadside bombs and broken soldiers— corruption limiting troop successes and heavy loss. Being around the bravado of other young men looking to go out and be a hero hadn’t helped. 

He wondered if John had been the same way before he was shipped off.

The little card he finally chose, with its kitten in a lab coat and blank space, was perfect for what he needed. Its simple greeting would be hastily crossed out, his own words written in. Perhaps a reference to chemicals, or forensic biology, could be used instead. Certainly more fitting for his needs. 

By the time he had paid and left the store, he had his message planned. And the delivery sorted. 

By the time he reached the flat, Sherlock was certain that Molly would love it. 

He knew that she would smile.


End file.
